it over. The divinity-student came and read over her shoulder,—very curious, apparently, but his eyes wandered, I thought. Seeing that her breathing was a little hurried and high, or thoracic, as my friend the Professor, calls it, I watched her a little more closely. It is none of my business.-After all, it is the imponderables that move the world,—heat, electricity, love.-Habet.]

THOMAS HOOD

THOMAS HOOD, English poet and humorist, was born in London, in 1799; died there 1845. As a lad he wrote verses and his literary ambitions made him, when but twenty-three, an editor of the "London Magazine." Later he edited "The Gem," published "The Comic Annual," and "Hood's Magazine." His humor was spontaneous, never forced. At times he brought out pathetic pieces that showed an inborn tendency to melancholy, despite the fact that his work was to make men laugh and see the brighter side. Among his best works are: "The Song of the Shirt," "The Bridge of Sighs," and "Faithless Nelly Gray."

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS

("Drowned! drowned !"-Hamlet)

NE more fortunate,
Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate,

Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly

Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.-

Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her-
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful:

Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family-

Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?

Who was her father?
Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, and a nearer one

Yet, than all other?

Alas for the rarity

Of Christian charity
Under the sun!

O, it was pitiful!

Near a whole city full,

Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly

Feelings had changed:

Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;

Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,

With many a light

From window and casement,
From garret to basement,

She stood with amazement,
Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March

Makes her tremble and shiver

But not the dark arch,

Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery

Swift to be hurled-
Any where, any where
Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran,—
Over the brink of it,
Picture it-think of it,
Dissolute man!

Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently, kindly,

Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.-

Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,

Her evil behavior,

And leaving, with meekness,

Her sins to her Saviour!

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT

ITH fingers weary and worn,

WITH

With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and threadStitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt !"